UCSS  LIBRARY 


TA.LES 


MUMBLE  LIFE, 


.A.  s  HE  "W  o 


A  TALE  OF  SORROW 


J^UBUISHED    BY    ^ERMISSION    OF    THK    AUTHOR. 


PUBLISHED  BY 


PHILADELPHIA  CONFERENCE  TRACT  SOCIETY, 

METHODIST  EPISCOPAL  BOOK  ROOMS, 
1018  AECH  STREET,  PHILADA, 


NOTE  TO  THE  SECOND  SERIES, 


THE  reader  may  rest  assured  these  narratirets  *r« 
inbstantially  true,  as  many  persons  now  living  in  the 
neighborhood  can  testify.  The  names  mentioned  are 
real  names,  both  of  persons  and  places.  Some  of  them, 
as  in  the  former  case,  have  arisen  from  my  connection 
with  the  Chapel  for  the  Destitute. 

I  am  surprised  and  thankful  foi-  the  reception  given 
to  the  first  eleven  Tales,  now  constituting  the  First 
Volume — nearly  half  a  million  of  which  have  been 
sold  in  a  few  months — and  the  urgent  request  of  many 
friends  that  I  would  furnish  them  with  more,  induces 
me  again  to  dip  into  my  diary,  where  many  more  yet 
remain. 

I  am  a  tradesman,  and  make  no  pretensions  to  liter- 
ary ability.  If  He  whom  I  desire  to  serve  condescends 
to  use  me  as  a  medium  of  good  to  others,  my  earnest 
wish  will  be  realized.  To  Him  my  prayer  has  been, 
"HOLD  THOU  MY  EIGHT  HAND." 

J.  ASHWOE 

Rochdale,  1866. 


"  Woman  of  weeping  eye,  sad  is  thy  wretched  lot- 
Putting  on  smiles,  to  lure  the  lewd  passenger: 
Smiling  while  anguish  gnaws  at  thy  heavy  heart." 

*  (Jo  rv>»  -jstray  in  her  paths.  For  she  hath  cast  down  many  wounded,  y«» 
many  Po-ong  men  have  been  slain  by  her.  Her  house  is  the  way  to  hell, 
going  down  to  the  chambers  of  death. 

Ye*,  but  how  came  she  to  enter  these  path*  ? 

Go  with  me,  and  I  will  tell  you.  I  will  show 
you  a  house  that  ought  always  to  wear  the  sign  of 
mourimg ;  for  there  lives  a  man  more  guilty 
than  tfie  Herod  who  slaughtered  the  innocents! 
Th  y  died  guiltless,  and  went  to  heaven.  The 
mothers  of  Bethlehem  wept  their  children  slain. 
But  they  were  children,  cherubs  nestling  in 
their  mothers'  breasts ;  and  though  ruthlessly 
torn  away,  their  pure  souls  winged  their  flight 
to  join  those  angels,  who  are  said  to  be  minister- 
ing spirits. 

Mothers  of  Bethlehem !  Mothers  of  England ! 
which  of  you  would  not  a  thousand  times  sooner 
lay  down  your  little  child  beneath  a  weeping 
willow,  than  Lave  that  child  grow  up  to  wa 
manhood,  to  become  the  sport  and  victim  of  the 
seducer,  and  then  a  loathsome  cast-off  thing, 
the  betrayed,  and  the  double-betrayer  ? 

And  you,  mothers  and  daughters,  especially 
you  whose  e'evated  position  invests  you  with 
great  moral  power,  how  long  will  you  shrink 
from  performing  a  duty  to  yourselves,  by  spurn- 
ing from  your  presence  those  ignoble  pretenderi 


MARY: 


to  be  gentlemen,  dressed  in  the  height  of  fashion, 
well  skilled  in  the  etiquette  and  conventionalisms 
of  good  society,  but  who,  while  they  may  not 
offer  the  slightest  insult  to  those  in  their  own 
station  of  life,  are  well  known  to  be  guilty  of 
conduct  such  as  ought  to  brand  them  with  in- 
famy, and  exclude  them  from  all  respectable  so 
cjety?  Is  it  not  time  that  you  follow  the 
example  of  your  good  Queen,  and  exclude  such 
creatures  from  your  social  circles,  yonr  drawing- 
rooms,  or  your  very  acquaintance,  and  let  them 
fall  to  their  true  level  amongst  the  moral  dregs 
of  the  morally  degraded  ?  Until  you  do  this, 
the  work  of  the  social  reformer  will  be  painfully 
slow,  and  many  poor  Marys  will  still  be  the 
subjects  of  Tales  of  Sorrow. 

Mary,  the  subject  of  this  narrative,  during 
the  earlier  part  of  her  life,  resided  in  a  small 
village  north  of  Rochdale.  She,  like  most  youn«g 
people,  was  full  of  life,  and  joined  her  rustic 
playmates  in  their  innocent  amusements.  As 
she  grew  up,  many  remarked  that  she  would  be 
a  handsome  woman.  She  had  a  pretty  face,  and 
a  good  figure  ;  possessions  which,  to  many,  have 
proved  fatal  gifts.  Her  domestic  training  had 
not  been  all  that  one  could  wish.  Yet  her  fam- 
ily, of  which  she  was  the  youngest,  had  an 
average  respectability.  Mary's  attendance  at 
the  chapel  in  the  neighborhood  was,  for  sev- 


A  TALE  OF  SORROW. 

eral  years,  much  as  others.  The  more  thought- 
ful of  the  congregation  feared  that  she  was  too 
fond  of  dress,  and  the  question  was  sometimes 
asked,  how  did  she  get  the  means?  With  an 
answer  to  this  question,  the  painful  part  of  our 
narrative  begins. 

*     At  the  mill  where  she  worked,  she,  along  with 
others,  received  her  wages  every  fortnight.     On 
one  occasion  she  received  a  half-sovereign  more 
than  was  due.     She  counted  the  money  over  and 
over,  but  still  the  money  was  there.    She  looked 
at  the  man  (or  rather  fiend)  that  had  paid  her. 
He  saw  her  confusion,  and,  with  a  smile,  said, 
"  It  is  all  right,  Mary.     I  know  what  you  have 
received.     You  can  keep  the  piece  of  gold  for 
yourself."     Mary  returned  to  her  work  with  a 
face   like    scarlet.     Her    flushed    countenance 
caused  several  to  ask  her  what  she  had  been 
doing.      She  jokingly   answered,    "  You   must 
wait  till  I  tell  you."     But  though  she  tried  to 
sing,  and  look  cheerful  and  happy,  the  worm 
was  at  her  heart.     Thoughts  to  which  happily, 
she  had  hitherto  been  a  stranger,  had  entered  her 
head,  and,  in  spite  of  herself,  troubled  her.     To 
use  her  own  expression,  "I  was  uneasy  that  day." 
But  what  shall  we  say  of  the  wretch  who,  by 
the  piece  of  gold,  had  tempted  this  hitherto  in- 
nocent girl;  who  had  given  rise  to  hopes  he  de- 
liberately intended   to  blast?     Well   would  it 


4  MARY : 

have  been  for  Mary  if  she  had  cast  the  piece  in 
his  face,  walked  out  of  the  mill,  and  never  again 
entered  it. 

We  know  that  many  young  females  fall 
through  their  own  improper  conduct.  An  exces- 
sive love  of  finery  beyond  their  means,  bold  and 
forward  behaviour  in  the  presence  of  men,  light 
and  frivolous  conversation,  Sunday  walks  with 
merry  companions,  attending  theatres  and  sing- 
ing saloons,  keeping  late  hours  and  neglecting 
home  duties ; — all  these  are  judged  to  be  indica- 
tions of  easy  virtue,  and,  as  a  rule,  the  judgment 
is  just.  But  there  is  a  dignity  in  true  modesty, 
which  renders  the  libertine  powerless,  and  makes 
him  feel  his  own  degradation;  and  however 
men  may  pretend  to  flatter  the  forward,  they 
only  admire  and  respect  the  retiring.  Man's 
impudence  is  instantly  rebuked  where  the  wo- 
man's heart  is  fortified  with  true  religion ;  for, 
after  all,  piety  is  the  best  security  for  chastity. 

We  know  one,  who,  finding  a  bunch  of  grapes 
in  her  cop-box  (put  there  by  the  master,  under 
pretence  of  looking  for  something)  taking  the 
grapes  after  him,  into  the  counting-house,  cast 
them  down  at  his  feet  with  indignation,  and 
went  home  to  tell  her  mother.  She  knew  the 
man,  and  read  his  motives.  Her  mother  wept, 
and  exclaimed,  "  Ellen,  I  have  long  thought 
well  of  you;  but  now  I  thank  God  that  He  has 
iw 


A  TALE  OF  SORROW.  5 

given  me  such  a  child,  and  that  He  has  given 
you  so  pure  and  noble  a  spirit.  We  are  poor, 
but  we  will  leave  this  place,  and  trust  to  Provi- 
dence." Ellen  is  now  the  honored  and  re- 
spected wife  of  an  honorable  and  respectable 
man.  But  one,  in  the  same  mill,  who  did  not 
reject  the  allurements  thrown  in  her  way,  now 
finds  her  name  cast  out  as  evil,  and  is  the 
mother  of  a  child  of  shame. 

We  have  no  wish  to  cast  undue  reflections, 
but  observation  leads  us  to  the  conclusion,  that 
the  moral  character  of  the  employer  of  labor, 
whether  manufacturing  or  agricultural,  is  a  fair 
criterion  of  the  moral  character  of  the  employed. 
I  know  a  mill  partially  owned  by  a  man  of  the 
turf,  that  has  in  it  more  betters  and  gamblers 
than  all  the  mills  of  the  neighborhood;  and 
another  who  finds  money  for  backing  foot-races, 
has  brought  many  of  his  hands  to  poverty  by 
leading  them  to  imbibe  the  same  spirit.  "  Like 
master,  like  man,"  often  holds  good,  in  more  re 
spects  than  as  regards  either  horse  or  foot-racing. 
A  high  moral  character  in  employers,  managers, 
and  overlookers,  is  a  great  blessing  to  the  hands ; 
and  the  reverse  a  great  curse.  And  we  are  *>lad 
to  say  that  many  employers  have  a  sincere  re- 
gard for  the  moral  condition  of  their  hands, 
and  take  the  best  means  to  insure  their  welfare 
in  this  respect ;  for  there  is  no  doubt  that  vir- 

117 


£  MABY  t 

tue  and  integrity  prevail  amongst  our  factory 
operatives,  quite  as  much  as  amongst  any  class 
of  the  community. 

As  Mary  returned  home  that  night,  she  sepa- 
rated the  half-sovereign  from  her  wages,  and 
hid  it  in  a  part  of  her  dress.  She  looked  strange, 
and  was  so  unusually  silent  that  her  mother 
asked  her  if  she  was  poorly.  "  No,"  was  the 
reply,  though  she  retired  early  to  bed,  but  not 
to  sleep.  She  was  restless  and  miserable,  and 
rose  in  the  morning  unrefreshed.  She  wished 
to  tell  some  one,  but  durst  not.  She  wished  to 
hide  the  money,  but  could  not  tell  where,  for 
she  was  afraid  it  might  be  seen,  and  then  what 
must  she  say  respecting  it  ?  But  soon  the  half- 
sovereign  grew  to  two,  then  to  three.  Fine 
dressing  followed.  Whispers  of  scandal  soon 
became  out-spoken.  She  left  the  school  and 
chapel ;  left  her  home,  driven  away  by  her 
father ;  and  one  night,  in  a  lodging-house,  be- 
came the  mother  of  a  still-born  child.  Mary's 
mother  contrived  to  see  her,  privately,  during 
her  confinement,  but  it  was  a  sorrowful  meeting. 
The  rest  of  the  family  would  not  own  her,  and 
she  left  the  neighborhood.  Where  she  went  to, 
was  best  known  to  the  giver  of  the  first  fatal 
half-sovereign. 

Two  years  after  the  revelation  of  her  shame, 
she  might  be  seen  walking  our  streets.    But  how 


A  TALE  OP  SORROW.  7 

changed  !  The  rustic  health  and  cheerful  smile 
were  gone.  There  was  no  mistaking  what  she 
then  was,  nor  why  she  was  walking  the  streets, 
—  the  mark  was  upon  her.  Poor  Mary,  does  the 
wretch  that  gave  thee  the  half-sovereign,  that 
first  beguiled,  tempted,  and  ruined  thee,  smile 
upon  thee  now  ?  No.  He  has  destroyed  the 
peace  of  thy  home,  and  from  that  home  they 
spurned  thee.  He  saw  thee  innocent  and  happy* 
and  blasted  all  thy  hopes.  The  scorpion's  sting 
would  not  have  proved  so  fatal  to  thee  as  that 
villainous  wretch.  Now  he  does  not  know  thee : 
he  despised  thee,  and  threatened  to  send  thee  to 
prison,  the  last  time  thou  didst  ask  for  some- 
thing to  buy  thee  bread.  Poor  Mary ! 

"  Once  thou  wert  happy— thou  wert  once  innocent, 

But  the  seducer  beguiled  thee  in  artlessness ; 

Then  he  abandoned  thee  unto  thine  infamy  ; 

Now  he  perhaps  is  reclined  on  a  soft  bed  of  down. 

But  if  a  wretch  like  him  sleep  in  security, 

God  of  the  red  right-arm,  where  is  Thy  thunderbolt?" 

Had  poor  Mary  been  wise,  there  was  some 
hope  still  left  for  her. 

While  penning  this  short  story,  a  young  fe- 
male has  just  entered  my  house,  and  sits  before 
me.  She  comes  to  beseech  me  to  take  her,  from 
a  life  of  sin  and  sorrow,  to  the  Home  for  the 
Penitent.  A  kind  lady  (not  for  the  first  time  in 
such  cases)  consents  to  take  her.  And  now  the 
young  woman,  yesterday  on  the  street,  is  shel- 
tered in  a  home  of  mercy,  that  to  many  has  been 
a  home  of  joy,  from  which,  after  two  years,  they 

119 


8  MARY : 

have  come  forth  new  in  heart,  and  new  in  life. 
The  blessing  of  Him  who  had  not  where  to  1  ,y 
His  head  rest  on  the  homes  of  the  benevolent 
Christian  ladies,  who  have  thus  provided  a  mer- 
ciful retreat  for  their  fallen  and  erring  sisters. 
•  But  Mary  did  not  go ;  she  lived  on  a  life  of 
crime  and  wretchedness. 

Late  one  evening  a  gentle  knock  at  the  door 
arrested  my  attention.  The  knock  was  evi- 
dently from  a  timid  hand.  There  is  in  the  mid- 
night knock  a  disturbing  influence  peculiar  to 
itself.  When  the  tramping  of  feet  has  ceased, 
and  the  rumbling  wheels  of  the  last  conveyance 
die  away  in  the  distance,  and  stillness  reigns 
around; — when,  quiet  and  thoughtful,  you  sit 
gazing  into  the  darkening  embers  of  the  worn- 
out  fire,  calmly  reflecting  on  the  past,  or  specu- 
lating on  the  future, — in  such  a  moment  a  knock 
instantly  arrests  every  wandering  thought,  and 
commands  immediate  attention.  Such  was  my 
experience  on  the  night  I  was  requested  to  visit 
the  subject  of  this  narrative. 

On  unlocking  the  door  a  poor  woman  stood  on 
the  steps.  She  was  without  bonnet ;  her  head 
and  face  were  covered  with  a  shawl.  Inquiring 
her  errand  at  so  late  an  hour,  she  informed  me 
that  a  woman  in  the  back  street  was  very  poorly, 
and  wished  to  see  me  as  soon  as  possible.  And 
the,  with  evident  fear,  added,  but  almost  in  » 

120 


A  TALE  OF  SORROW.  9 

whisper,  "  She  is  a  woman  of  the  streets."  Bid- 
ding her  wait,  I  stepped  back  into  the  house,  put 
on  my  boots,  coat,  and  hat.  On  returning  to 
the  door,  though  the  night  was  dark,  I  saw  an- 
other person,  standing ,  several  yards  distant. 
She  was  tall  and  slender,  and  seemed  clothed  in 
white.  The  moment  she  saw  me,  she  ran  down 
the  street  at  her  full  speed,  and  was  instantly 
out  of  sight. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  Why  was 
yonder  person  standing,  looking  this  way  ;  and 
why  does  she  now  run  so  swiftly  away?'*  I  asked. 

"  I  do  not  know,  sir,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Yes,  I  think  you  do ;  and  I  wish  you  to  tell 
me  before  I  go  with  you  one  step,"  I  ob- 
served. 

"  Well  then,  sir,  she  should  have  come  for  you 
herself;  but,  being  dressed  as  she  is,  she  wished 
me  to  come,  and  she  would  show  me  where  you 
lived." 

Our  way  to  the  place  of  infamy  and  suffering 
was  down  a  notorious  street.  Near  the  bottom 
are  several  miserable  courts.  Down  one  of  these 
we  groped  our  way  in  absolute  darkness,  and  at 
last  reached  the  house  of  sin  and  Sorrow.  It  was 
the  home  of  Mary. 

I  have  witnessed  many  scenes  of  wretched- 
ness, but  none  surpassed  the  one  I  saw  that  night. 
In  a  small  room,  with  a  damp  flagged  floor,  on  a 

121 


10  MARY : 

pair  of  old  bed-stocks,  under  a  bundle  of  rags,  lay 
the  wasted  and  worn  form  of  what  had  once  been 
a  beautiful  woman.  A  chair  without  bottom 
stood  beside  her  head ;  across  this  was  a  narrow 
piece  of  wood,  placed  there  to  hold  a  cup  of 
water.  A  thin  candle,  that  stood  over  the  fire 
place,  dimly  revealed  a  sight  sickening  to  behold. 
I  laid  my  hat  on  the  floor,  and,  bending  over  the 
poor  creature,  asked  if  she  wished  to  see  me. 

''Yes,  sir,  I  do.  Yes,  I  do.  You  went  to 
see  Ellen,  and  you  went  to  see  Lizzie ;  they  are 
dead ;  and  now  my  turn  is  come."  Then  raising 
herself  up,  with  a  look  of  wildness  truly  dread- 
ful, she  exclaimed,  "But  there  is  mercy!  there 
is  mercy !  there  must  be  mercy !  I  know  Christ 
died  for  sinners.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  that  Christ 
died  for  sinners,  and  I  am  a  sinner !  and  0  ! 
what  a  sinner  I" 

She  then  fell  back  exhausted,  and  lay  some 
time  without  power  to  speak.  When  she  re- 
covered, I  replied,  "Yes,  thank  God,  Christ  died 
for  sinners,  and  for  the  chief  of  sinners.  How 
long  have  you  known  this  ?" 

"  Ever  since  I  was  a  scholar  in  the  Sunday- 
school.  I  there  learned  to  read  the  Bible 
There  I  heard  the  gospel  preached.  When  I 
was  about  eighteen,  the  minister  often  spoke  to 
me  about  joining  the  church,  and  giving  my  heart 
to  God.  Those  wore  happy  days>  happy  days ! 


A  TALE  OF  SORROW.  11 

0  !  could  I  but  call  them  back.     But  no,  no,  they 
are  gone !" 

And  again  raising  her  voice,  she  repeated, 
"  But  there  must  be  mercy  !  There  must  be 
mercy,  Christ  died  for  sinners!" 

"  Had  you  not  left  the  Sunday-school,  and  had 
you  sought  and  obtained  salvation  as  the  minis- 
ter wished,  how  different  would  have  been  your 
state !  In  an  evil  day  you  left  the  school,  lost 
your  virtue,  and  lost  your  peace." 

"Yes,  and  an  evil  day  it  has  been.  I  have  a 
thousand  reasons  for  cursing  that  day ;  and  to 
curse  one  villain  more  than  the  day.  My  blood 
is  on  his  head,  and  my  curse  has  long  followed 
him.  Can  mercy  ever  reach  such  as  he !" 

Just  at  this  point  the  door  was  softly  opened, 
and  the  tall,  slender  young  woman,  in  the  light 
dress,  entered.  She  was  followed  by  four  others, 
all  gayly  attired.  The  youngest,  a  girl  about 
eighteen,  had  curled  her  hair,  and  wore  a  light 
dress,  neck-beads,  and  bracelets.  The  five  qui- 
etly drew  near  the  bed,  and  silently  gazed  on 
poor  Mary. 

For  some  time  not  a  word  was  spoken.  Mary 
was  the  first  to  move  or  speak.  She  fixed  her 
eyes  with  a  steady  gaze  upon  the  group,  and  said, 
with  a  deep  sigh,  "  You  WILL  ALL  COME  TO  THIS  !" 

I  have  heard  the  roar  of  the  surging  sea,  and 
wail  of  stricken  sorrow.     I  have  heard  the 


128 


12  MARY  t 

sobs  of  agony  for  the  dying,  and  the  groans  of 
the  suddenly  bereaved,  but  that  one  sentence 
stands  out  amongst  all  as  the  most  fearful,  the 
most  truly  dreadful.  Many  events  glide  from 
my  memory,  like  the  lessening  reverberations  of 
the  echo.  But  this  holds  its  place.  What  a 
scene  I  The  young,  the  gay,  the  thoughtless, 
blooming  with  health,  and  buoyant  with  hope, 
decked  in  fashion  and  show,  taking  their  last 
look  at  one  of  their  companions  in  sin;  that 
companion,  by  crime  and  transgression,  wasted 
and  worn,  covered  with  filthy  rags,  in  the  most 
wretched  poverty,  sinking  rapidly  down  to  the 
grave,  and,  as  she  feared,  down  to  hell ;  in  the 
calmness  of  death,  looking  on  the  guilty  group, 
and  deliberately  predicting  their  doom. 

We  catch  this  sentence  of  the  dying  Magda- 
lene, with  a  hope  that  it  will  never  die  till  its 
sound  is  heard  in  the  gayest  saloon,  the  casino, 
and  every  house  or  place  of  ill-fame  throughout 
our  land.  For  to  all  such  characters  the  words 
are  true ;  and  terrible  as  true ;  except  they  turn 
from  their  ways  of  wickedness,  they  WILL  ALL 

COME  TO    THIS. 

I  was  leaning  against  the  wall,  under  the  dim 
candle,  when  the  fearful  prophecy  was  uttered ; 
and  turning  to  the  youngest,  asked  if  she  had 
heard  it. 

"Yes/  said  she,  "  I  heard  it." 

124 


A  TALE  OF  SORROW.  13 

"Yes,"  I  observed,  "in  this  place  we  see  the 
beginning  and  the  end.  This  poor  creature,  now 
lying  in  such  a  pitiable  condition,  was  once  as 
you  are.  And  unless  you  forsake  the  life  of  sin 
you  are  now  leading,  you  will  soon  be  as  she  is." 

Then,  addressing  them  all,  I  said,  "  Surely  you 
now  see,  in  this  dying  woman,  what  are  the 
wages  of  sin.  Is  it  not  enough  to  make  you  fall 
on  your  knees,  and  cry  for  mercy  and  forgive- 
ness. Enough  to  make  you  tear  the  very  hair 
from  your  heads,  at  the  bare  thought  that  you 
have  the  name  of " 

While  speaking,  the  younger  girl  buried  her 
face  in  the  neck  of  one  near  her, — she  caught 
hold  of  the  young  creature,  and  they  sobbed 
aloud.  The  others  turned  to  the  wall,  and  wept. 
The  dying  penitent  calmly  said,  "  Mr.  Ashworth, 
kneel  down ;  beg  of  *God  to  have  mercy  on  us 
all, —especially  on  me,  a  broken-hearted  sinner." 

We  all  knelt.  Yes,  we  all  knelt,  and  wept, 
and  prayed.  How  frail  are  words  at  such  a  mo- 
ment. My  trembling  voice  was  lost  in  sobs,  in 
groans,  and  tears. 

On  a  subsequent  visit,  Mary  again  referred  to 
Ellen  and  Lizzie,  two  of  her  former  companions. 
She  knew  I  had  been  with  them  in  their  last  mo- 
ments, and  wished  to  know  if  they  had  any  hope 
in  their  death.  She  evidently  concluded  that, 
if  they  were  pardoned,  she,  too,  might  possibly 

125 


14  MARY: 

be  saved.  I  urged  her  not  to  allow  anything 
that  might  admit  of  a  question  to  draw  her  mind 
from  the  only  foundation  on  which  a  sinner 
could  trust  for  salvation. 

One  of  these  girls,  Lizzie,  a  few  days  before  she 
died,  sent  an  urgent  request  that  I  would  come 
immediately  to  see  her.  On  entering  the  house, 
she  requested  every  person  but  myself  to  go  out. 
When  all  had  left,  she  turned  her  face  towards 
me  with  a  look  of  despair,  exclaiming,  "  0,  sir, 
I  have  not  sent  for  you  to  read  the  Bible,  or  to 
pray  with  me.  It  is  now  too  late!  God  will 
not  hear  prayers  for  me.  A  lady  brought  me 
a  Bible  many  months  since,  but  I  pawned  it,  for 
how  aould  I  keep  a  Bible,  and  live  as  I  have 
lived?  The  sight  of  it  made  me  miserable.  I 
have  sent  for  you  to  confide  to  you  a  secret,  for 
I  cannot  die  until  I  have  told  you."  With  an- 
guish of  soul  she  communicated  to  me  the  long- 
kept  secret  but  it  can  do  no  person  any  good  to 
make  it  known.  On  the  day  she  died,  she  begged 
I  would  not  leave  her  one  moment.  About 
twelve  at  night,  she  had  a  most  terrible  conflict. 
She  grasped  my  hand,  and  screamed  out,  "  Shall 
I  go  to  hell  so  long  as  I  have  hold  of  the  hand  of 
a  Christian  ?"  For  some  time  our  hands  were 
,  locked  together.  On  tellling  her  I  wished  to 
read  and  pray  with  her  once  more,  she  loosed 
her  fingers.  One  of  her  attendants  ran  out  to 

196 


A  TALE  OF  SORROW.  15 

fetch  a  Bible,  and  another  lighted  a  candle,  for 
we  had  been  some  time  with  only  the  flickering 
of  the  fire  for  light.  I  read  in  the*  ears  of  the 
dying  Magdalene  the  last  portion,  of  God's  word 
she  ever  heard,  from  Psalm  ciii.;  and  kneeling 
down,  prayed  for  her  the  last  prayer.  As  I 
knelt  by  her  side  she  again  clasped  my  hand, 
heaved  one  deep  sigh,  and  breathed  her  last ! 

The  other  girl,  Ellen  Bland,  died  in  the  work- 
house. During  her  sickness  she  refused  to  see  any 
of  her  former  companions  ;  she  wept  and  prayed 
night  and  day,  and  was  greatly  distressed  on  ac- 
count of  the  disgrace  she  had  brought  on  her 
family.  Most  bitterly  did  she  bemoan  her  con- 
duct to  her  mother.  No  one  saw  her  die.  The 
old  nurse  took  me  to  look  at  her  body,  laid  out  in 
the  dead-house.  Her  features  bore  the  image  of 
pain  and  suffering.  I  laid  my  hand  on  the  cold 
forehead,  and  breathed  a  hope  that  the  sorrow- 
stricken  countenance  did  not  indicate  more  than 
her  last  struggle  with  the  last  enemy. 

I  was  near  being  the  only  mourner  for  Ellen. 
On  the  day  of  her  funeral,  I  walked  alone  be- 
hind the  hearse  containing  her  remains,  but  on 
arriving  near  the  cemetery,  two  of  her  young 
companions,  gaudily  dressed  in  borrowed  black, 
joined  me,  and  when  Ellen's  body  was  lowered 
into  its  dark,  narrow  bed,  they  both  sincerely 
shed  for  her  a  tear.  And  thou,  poor  Mary,  SOOD 

127 


16  MARY:  A  TALE  OF  SORROW. 

followed  thy  frail  sisters  to  their  resting-place. 
Poor  Mary,  the  wanderer  from  the  Sunday. 
school ;  Mary,  the  betrayed,  and  the  betrayer. 
Mary !  poor  Mary!  Thy  worn  and  wasted  form 
now  lies  silent  in  a  pauper's  grave. 

Fain  would  we  hope  that  He  who  wiped  away 
thy  sister's  tears  who  washed  His  feet  turned  not 
away  from  thine. 


"  For  at  the  window  of  my  house  I  looked 
through  my  casement,  and  beheld  among  the 
simple  ones  a  young  man  void  of  understanding. 
.  .  .  In  the  twilight,  in  the  evening,  in  the 
black  and  dark  night  *,  there  met  him  a  woman 
with  the  attire  of  an  harlot,  and  with  an  impu- 
dent face,  said  untc  him,  I  have  come  forth  to 
meet  thee.  With  her  much  fair  speech  she 
caused  him  to  yield.  He  goeth  after  her  as  an 
ox  goeth  to  the  slaughter,  as  a  fool  to  the  cor- 
rection of  the  stocks,  as  a  bird  to  the  snare,  till 
a  dart  strike  through  his  liver.  ,  .  .  But 
he  knoweth  not  that  the  dead  are  there,  and  that 
her  gates  are  in  the  depths  of  hell." 

Terrible  words  of  inspiration,  and  terrible  re- 
tribution, for  where  did  this  impudent  woman 
come  from  ?  Ask  the  rich  man  that,  with  the 
half-sovereign,  first  tempted  poor  MARY. 

128 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  UBRARYFACIUTY 


lUllil  nil  Illii "''""'       _    o  o  "1        f\ 


BCSB    UHKAKY 


STRANGE  TALES  MOM  HUMBLE  LIFE. 

BY   JOHN    ASHWORTH. 


fine  Edition,  Four  Series,  cloth,  limp.  The  First  and  Second, 
bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  boards,  or  extra  cloth,  gilt 
edges,  with  steel  portrait  of  the  Author;  also  Third  and 
Fourth  in  one  volume,  gilt  edges. 

These  remarkable  Tales  are  still  kept  as  Tracts,  of  whick 
nearly  Three  Millions  have  already  been  sold. 

FIRST  SERIES. 


1.  Mary;  a  Tale  of  Sorrow. 

2.  The  Dark  Hour.  [Men. 

3.  A  Wonder ;   or,   The  Two  Old 

4.  Sanderson  and  Little  Alice. 

5.  Wilkins.  [and  II. 
6*7.  The  Dark  Night.      Parts  I. 


8.  Joseph  ;  or,  The  Silent  Corner. 

9.  My  Mother. 

10.  Niffand  his  Dogs. 

11.  My  New  Friends. 

12.  My  New  Friends. 

13.  My  New  Friends. 


Part  I. 
Part  II. 
Pa.-t  III. 


SECOND  SERIES. 


14.  Mothers.  [Prayer. 

15.  Twenty  Pounds ;  or,  The  Little 
J6.  All  is  Well. 

17.  My  Uncle ;  or,  Johnny's  Box. 

18.  Old  Adam. 

19.  Ellen  Williams. 


20.  Trials. 

21.  Answered  at  Last. 

22.  Priscilla.  [Step. 

23.  Julia ;  or,   The   First   Wro&g 

24.  No  Cotton. 

25.  My  Young  Ragged  Friends. 


THIRD  SERIES. 


26.  The  Lost  Curl. 
27-  Emmott. 

28.  The  Widow. 

29.  Sarah ;  or,  "  I  Will  have  Him  I ' 

80.  My  Sick  Friends.    Park  I. 

81.  My  Sick  Friends.    Part  II. 


32.  George. 

33.  James  Burrows. 

34.  John  and  Mary. 

35.  A  Sad  Story. 

36.  Lucy's  Legacy. 

37.  Edmund. 


FOURTH  SERIES. 


88.  The  Golden  Wedding. 

89.  William  the  Tutor. 

40.  Fathers. 

41.  Little  Susan. 
4l  Old  Matthew. 
43.  Old  Abe. 


44.  Milly. 

45.  The  Fog  Bell. 

46.  Mrs.  Bowden. 

47.  Happy  Ned. 

48.  Harry. 

49.  A  Dancer. 


WALKS    IN    CANAAN. 

By  eame  Author.    304  gages,  with  7  full-page  illustrations.    Cloth,  or 
extra  cloth,  gilt  edges. 


»*«"Mr.  Ashworth's  Tales  and  Books  are  above  my  praise;  they  are 
circulated  I  believe,  not  by  thousand*,  but  by  millions,  and  the  result 
is,  that  the  name  of  John  Ash  worth  is  a  Household  Word,  not  only  in 
the  lordly  halls,  but  in  the  lowly  homes  of  England." — Dr.  Gut/trie. 


